


One More Week

by BadGirlCC



Series: Weeks with Poirot [2]
Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Diary/Journal, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Quarantine, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadGirlCC/pseuds/BadGirlCC
Summary: Poirot has asked her back, but there's something going around that isn't love. What will happen when they are trapped together in Whitehaven Mansions?
Relationships: Hercule Poirot/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Weeks with Poirot [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843921
Comments: 23
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

~SUNDAY~

It had been months since I’d last seen Monsieur Hercule Poirot in person. Of course, I did often see his picture in the newspaper attributed to solving some crime or another. I am embarrassed to say that I did cut out one or two of those pictures to save in my scrapbook. Directly after I first met him, I missed him fiercely. He was brilliant and kind, and though he wasn’t easy to please he was a pleasure to work for. 

In the passing days, I’d grown busy with other clients and other work, so it had become easier not to think about that first week with him. It was because of this that I was completely blindsided when I dreamt about him. 

That morning when I’d awoken, every bit of sadness came back. I’d dreamed that he and I were sharing dinner again, and he touched my face like he had that night. It felt so real. I could feel the softness and warmth of his hand against my face. When I woke up and it was all a dream, I felt… I don’t know how I felt. I wished I could go back and see him.

Without discussing it, it seemed that both of us had agreed to keep our relationship as professional as possible. He hadn’t written to me- other than when he mailed my payment- and I hadn’t written to him. I didn’t even know what I would say, honestly. Everything I came up with sounded stupid or childish, so I gave up long ago. 

I passed all that day reading and knitting. Anything to keep my mind busy and distracted. 

That evening, probably close to dinner time, I received a telephone call. I wasn’t expecting any calls, so I thought it was probably just a friend wanting to invite me out, or something ordinary. I almost pretended I wasn’t home, but I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I decided to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Mademoiselle! It is Hercule Poirot!”

I nearly fainted. I took so long to answer that he thought the line had gone dead.

“Mademoiselle are you there?”

“Yes, Monsieur! I’m here! It is so good to hear your voice. What can I do for you?”

My heart raced. He was calling me. He was on the other end of this phone line. Months without hearing anything and now he was calling my telephone. Him! Not his secretary. Him.

“Oh, Mademoiselle it is good to hear your voice as well. I am sorry to be calling so late in the evening, but I must ask for your help.”

I was jumping for joy on the inside, but I schooled my voice into being as calm as possible.

“Yes, Monsieur. Anything.”

And I meant anything. He paused before he responded. What did that mean?!

“Do you have a previous engagement with another employer this week, Mademoiselle?”

“No, Monsieur. I don’t."

“Bon! Please to come tomorrow at 8 o’clock.”

“Of course, Monsieur. I am looking forward to it.”

“Poirot is looking forward to it as well, Mademoiselle.”

He hung up, and my heart was soaring. I felt like I was floating in the clouds.

Tomorrow suddenly felt too soon, but I also suddenly felt like a child waiting for Christmas morning. I tried to calmly put everything together and be ready for the morning. I set my hair and laid out my clothes. Tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock, I would be back in his office.

~MONDAY~

I practically jumped out of bed. It was like the first day of school all over again. I dressed as neatly as I could and took a deep breath before heading out. I arrived a bit early and was reaching for the key when I remembered I didn’t have it anymore. I had returned it months ago. I debated whether or not to wait until 8 ‘o clock to ring the buzzer, but I decided it would be better to just ring the bell and get started than waiting in the hall like a fool.

He opened the door in his sapphire and silver dressing gown. Impeccable as always, he held out his hand to me and smiled broadly. His eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled like that. I took his hand and came into the apartment. 

“Mademoiselle, please to come in. You are looking just the same as the last time we met. You have arrived early. Bon! Tomorrow you will have the key to let yourself in, non?”

“Oui, Monsieur. And may I say that you are looking very well yourself?”

I felt my face flush when I said those words. I needed to remember to keep it strictly business. He just smiled and nodded.

“Have you had your tisane this morning, Monsieur?”

“Non, Mademoiselle.”

“Then I will prepare it for you while you finish getting ready for the day.”

I smiled brightly as I hung up my hat and coat.

“Merci, Mademoiselle. You know Poirot too well, I think.”

He smiled and bowed by way of nodding his head, then turned to go into his bedroom and finish dressing. I put my bag and gloves into the office, then went into the kitchen to make his tisane. I did know his routine fairly well from the last time I filled in for Miss Lemon, but I didn’t know him as well as I wanted to. I needed to remember that I was here to work and take care of things for Monsieur, and that was all. 

By the time the tisane was finished, Poirot was sitting at his desk smartly attired with a small sprig of lavender in his lapel pin. I brought it to him and sat the tray down quietly without spilling a drop. 

“Do you promise to give to Poirot your very best again, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Monsieur! Of course! Je ferai toujours de mon mieux por vous.”

I wanted to rush forward, to take his hand, to kneel before him and show him how serious I was. Instead, I stood stock-still.

“Bon! There is much to do today. Please to take care of the correspondence on your desk. The Inspector Japp will be here around noon. Show him into the sitting room when he arrives.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

I was somewhat disappointed, but I didn’t know what I’d expected. He’d called me to replace his secretary. He needed me to do this work for him, or he wouldn’t have called. I turned to go, but he stopped me.

“One more thing, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes, Monsieur?”

“Thank you for coming to the rescue of Poirot. I am very glad you came.”

It was my turn to smile and bow by way of a nod. I turned again and went to the office before I could giggle or do something else embarrassing. It was wonderful to be needed by someone as brilliant and wonderful as Hercule Poirot.

The buzzer rang at about 2 o’clock. When I answered the door a tallish man with bright blue eyes, a bushy mustache, and the disheveled look of a harried man was standing outside. He looked confused, checked the number on the door, and then looked at me again.

“Is Poirot in?”

“Yes, Sir he is. May I ask who is calling for him?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. He is expecting me.”

“Ah! Yes! Inspector Japp. Monsieur did mention that you would be coming today. Please come right this way.”

I showed him into the sitting room as Poirot had requested. I took his hat and coat and offered him tea, which he gratefully accepted. When I returned with the tray Poirot was explaining that Miss Lemon was away looking after her sister who was ill and that I was filling in for her while she was away. Inspector Japp looked at me strangely as I set the tray between the two men. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed, amused, or worried about me. 

I poured milk and tea for the inspector and only tea for Poirot. The gold on the edges of the cups glinted in the sunlight as I handed each man their cups and saucers. I smiled as Poirot put 3 sugars into his cup.

“Have you worked for Poirot before, Miss?”

I smiled softly.

“I have, Inspector, and I enjoyed every moment of it. Is there anything else, Monsieur?” 

“Non, Mademoiselle. Merci.”

I nodded politely and smiled before returning to my desk. Inspector Japp stayed long enough to finish off a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. I didn’t hear anything about the case he’d come to discuss, but the poor man probably should have been in bed. He was coughing and having a hard time catching his breath, but he insisted it was just hay fever.

  
  


As Inspector Japp donned his hat and coat on the way out of the door, he thanked me for the tea and said quietly, “I don’t know how you do it, miss. Poirot is a genius, but he’s a difficult man. And if you ever tell him I said he’s a genius I’ll deny it.”

He smiled jauntily and ducked out of the door.

I cleared away the tea tray, and Poirot was deep in thought. He sat with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled in front of his face. Japp must have brought him some new and unexpected information. I said nothing, but I placed a pad of paper and his fountain pen on the table in front of him in case he needed to write a note when he resurfaced. Then I crept into the kitchen to clean up the dishes.

After I’d dried everything and put it away, there was a list of people to contact on my desk. Poirot had also written instructions for a time and place to meet. I supposed he had solved the case he and Japp had been working on. I contacted the people listed, including the inspector, and set up the meeting as Poirot requested.

I was itching for his praise. I hadn’t even been back for a full day and I was already aching to impress him. It was starting all over again. As I approached his desk to tell him the appointments were all set and each person had agreed to come, I had to remind myself that I needed to be professional. 

I stood to the side of his desk and waited for him to acknowledge me before I spoke. He was writing something, and when he reached the end of his sentence, he raised his head and looked at me waiting for me to speak. I was momentarily speechless when I looked into his eyes. I’d almost forgotten why I’d come in. Then the cogs in my brain started turning again and I was able to speak.

“Monsieur, the people you asked me to contact have all agreed to the meeting you asked for. They will all be there.”

“Bon. Tomorrow Poirot will reveal the killer and this case, it comes to the close.”

He looked dreadfully pleased with himself and I couldn’t help but smile too. He had every right to be pleased with himself. He’d solved a case that no one else could. I stood there basking in his chuffed smile.

“Was there anything else, Mademoiselle?”

I blushed.

“Non, Monsieur.”

I turned and went back to the office, chiding myself the whole way. I wanted more than he’d agreed to give and I needed to remember my place.

~TUESDAY~

Tuesday was the day of the big meeting. Poirot left after his Tisane and didn’t come back until tea time. He was smiling when he came back and in a visibly good mood. I came out of the office to help him out of his coat and he pretended he was surprised to see me.

“Ah, Mademoiselle! The very person I wished to see! Tonight is a night of celebration. Let us go out for dinner in honor of the genius of Poirot!”

I was stunned at the offer, but I wouldn’t have turned it down in a million years.

“Monsieur, I would love to! I will need to go home and change, though.”

“Bien sûr! Poirot, he will pick you up at seven 7 o’clock, then we will go together.”

My heart raced and I felt like I was at the top of a ferris wheel looking out over the world as the car rocked and swayed in the breeze. It was wonderful and frightening and giddy.

“Yes, Monsieur. That sounds wonderful!”

At five o’clock I tried not to run out of the door to catch the bus home. I realized as I looked at my 2 dinner dresses hanging in the closet that I couldn’t afford to keep being precious about dresses I’d had special evenings in. 

I didn’t want to wear the first one with him again, so I brought the new one out of my closet. It was satin in a color I could only describe as silver with a slight lavender tint. The pieces that made up the armholes joined with a silver brooch in the front to create a high v-neckline with a small triangular keyhole underneath. The back plunged as far as was decent. The skirt fell straight down from the bodice, over my hips, and to the floor. I put a few essentials into my silver clutch, put on the tiniest bit of makeup, and changed my hair to suit the occasion.

When I was finished, it wasn’t seven o’clock yet. Now that I had time to wait, I was getting nervous. I liked him _so_ much, and I was trying not to read into things. He wanted to go out to dinner but he didn’t want to go alone. I was the only person nearby to ask. Surely there was no reason for me to read anything into it. I checked the time again and went to put my coat on. He would be there any moment.

When the bell rang, I was waiting at the door. I opened the door to Poirot in black tie and black Homburg. Was there anything he didn’t look handsome in? He tipped his hat and held out his hand for me. I couldn’t think of anything that would have been right to say at the time, so I just took his arm and walked down the path with him in silence. My case of nerves was only getting worse.

The street lights played on his face as the taxi drove into the night. He looked over at me and smiled. I hoped he would reach out and take my hand, but he didn’t.

“Where have you chosen for our celebration this evening, Monsieur?”

“Poirot has for you a surprise,” he said, winking.

“Well then Monsieur, I put myself in your hands.”

The ride was shorter than I expected. The restaurant was like a glittering beacon in the darkness. As Poirot took my hand and helped me out of the car, I heard the band playing inside. Once we were through the doors, we checked our coats. For just a moment I thought I caught Poirot looking at me as if… but no. I must have imagined it.

I took his arm as the maitre d’ led us to our table. There were swaying couples in the area in front of the stage, as other diners enjoyed differing stages of dinner. We were seated with a view of the dance floor. I couldn't help but hope we would dance tonight.

I let him choose what to order. I was so nervous I wouldn't have been able to decide, and I had said I would place myself in his hands. I was so glad he hadn't ordered fish, because I really hated fish. The things he chose were all amazingly good though. 

We talked politely through dinner, though he refused to expound on the case we were celebrating the close of. All he would say was that an innocent man had been charged with a crime he did not commit and that he had been able to save him from the gallows. I suggested we have a toast to him and his little grey cells. His eyes crinkled up with delight as we raised our glasses and drank.

After dessert, there was a natural lull in the conversation. As I sipped my dessert wine the band started to play “You and the Night and the Music.” I knew how the lyrics would go when the band leader started to sing them, but now they were only playing the opening refrain. I had never felt any song as deeply as I felt that song at that moment. I was honestly surprised that I didn’t look like I was in physical pain. I looked from my glass to where Poirot had been sitting and I realized he was now standing next to me with his hand outstretched.

“Would you care to dance, Mademoiselle?”

Inside I wanted to jump and scream ‘YES YES YES I WOULD LOVE TO DANCE WITH YOU YOU IDIOT MAN’ but outside I only nodded and took his hand.

He led me to the dance floor and drew me close to him just as the bandleader began to sing.

> “You and the night and the music
> 
> Fill me with flaming desire
> 
> Setting my being completely on fire
> 
> You and the night and the music
> 
> Thrill me but will we be one
> 
> After the night and the music are done?
> 
> Until the pale light of dawning and daylight
> 
> Our hearts will be throbbing guitars
> 
> Morning may come without warning
> 
> And take away the stars
> 
> If we must live for the moment
> 
> Love ‘til the moment is through
> 
> After the night and the music die
> 
> Will I have you?”

Poirot’s hand rested on my hip and I was pressed against him as he led me around the floor. The band played on and it honestly felt like the whole rest of the world disappeared while I was looking into his eyes. His warmth seeped into my body through the satin of my dress. I wanted it to go on forever, but eventually, the band played the last refrain and the moment was over. It felt like shaking the last of a pleasant dream away. We applauded the band and went back to our table.

After that, he took me home. He walked me to the door where he bid me goodnight. The evening had been perfect but I longed for only one thing more. He took me by the hand and I thought ‘This is it!’ This was surely the moment I’d been waiting for! He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it softly.

“Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle.”

He said it softly, almost in a whisper.

“Bonne nuit, Monsieur.”

And then he was gone. Good Lord, he was a frustrating man! I could hardly sleep because I was trying to figure out what the evening had meant, and I kept replaying our dance over and over. My hand in his, our bodies swaying in time with the band. When I finally fell asleep it was late, and I knew the morning would be rough, but I wouldn’t have given up even a moment of the evening.

~WEDNESDAY~

When I came in that morning, I could already hear him coughing. I hurried to put the kettle on so his tisane would be ready when he emerged. I checked my desk to see if there were any urgent letters or notes I needed to attend to, but there weren’t. The late night must have affected him as well.

I was bringing the finished tisane out just as Poirot was coming out of his bedroom. He had a handkerchief to his mouth to cover it as he coughed fiercely. He already looked like he wasn’t feeling well.

“Good Morning, Monsieur. Your tisane is already prepared and I have more hot water on standby in case you require a second cup.”

“Merci, Mademoiselle.”

He smiled weakly.

“Oh, and Monsieur. I wanted to say… I had a lovely time last night. I’m very glad you chose to celebrate with me.”

“I am also glad. You dance beautifully, Mademoiselle.”

He coughed again.

“Drink your tisane Monsieur, and please let me know what I can do to help you feel better.”

He sipped the hot drink.

“Poirot, he begins to feel better already. Merci, Mademoiselle.”

I smiled and left him to finish his drink.

A little while later, his cough seemed to be getting worse, so I suggested he breathe in some steam while I prepared lunch. He grimaced but agreed. I brought him a bowl of steaming hot water with a drop of peppermint extract mixed in and a towel. I also brought him a comb and mirror so he could put his hair back into place when he was finished. No one looks very dignified after they’ve been steaming their face under a towel.

Lunch was light, but he barely touched it. That was when I started to worry. He made it through the day, but it was obvious he was sick. I decided to start a pot of broth before I went home so that it would be ready for the next day.

~THURSDAY~

I finished the broth when I came in as I made Poirot’s tisane. He had not come out of his room by the time his tisane was ready, so I knocked on his door. He didn’t answer. He only coughed. I debated on whether or not I should open the door. He hadn’t answered me or told me to go away because he was fine, He’d only coughed forcefully and taken ragged wheezing breaths. I couldn’t leave him alone if he was so sick he couldn’t breathe, so I opened the door. He was still in bed, covers pulled up to his chin. 

At first, I was embarrassed. He was in bed in his pajamas. I’d only ever seen him without a jacket once, and never without a waistcoat. When I saw how pale he was, I got over my embarrassment more quickly than I’d felt it. I felt his forehead. He was burning up! I rushed to find a washcloth so that I could make a cold compress and start bringing his fever down. Once that was done, I looked up his doctor’s information in Miss Lemon’s files and called him.

The doctor asked me about his symptoms. I explained that he’d been coughing fiercely for two days and now he had a fever and seemed to be having a hard time breathing. I heard an edge of worry in the doctor’s voice as he told me to get his fever down as much as I could, give him 2 tablets of aspirin every 4 fours to help with the fever, prop him up so that he could breathe better, try to have him breathe in steam if possible to help open up the airways, and he would be at the flat as quickly as he could. 

Apparently, he had several patients with very similar symptoms. The doctor advised me not to leave the apartment or open the door to anyone except him until he gave me the word. That last part was very strange, but if I were going to be taking care of Poirot while he was this sick, I doubted I’d be able to go out anyway.

I went back to his room and helped him to sit up, and his breathing seemed to ease a bit. I took the cold compress into the bathroom to refresh it while I looked for the aspirin. I felt a little strange to dig through Poirot's medicine cabinet, but I was trying to bring his fever down, not snoop on him.

Poirot tried to sleep but he was coughing and having a hard time breathing. I stayed close by, changing the cold compress often and trying to bring his fever down. I'd tried to get Poirot to drink some broth but his cough was worse and his strength seemed to be flagging. 

The doctor didn't come until after noon. When I answered the door he looked haggard already, so I put on the kettle and made strong tea while he examined Poirot. When the doctor came back out of Poirot’s room, he didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look overly worried either.

“Have a seat, doctor. You look exhausted.”

I poured him a cup of tea as he sat down gratefully. 

“How is he?”

“You’re not Poirot’s regular secretary are you?”

“No, sir. She is out of town taking care of her sister who is ill as well.”

“Ah, yes. Well. He’s having a hard time breathing. I’ll have the pharmacy bring something that should help with his cough and let him get some rest. I’ll be frank with you, miss. His symptoms are the same as the many patients I’ve seen this morning. This disease is not responding to antibiotics, so all we can do is wait and help him through it as best we can. He is going to be in danger until that fever comes down, so keep up the aspirin regimen.”

“When you say danger, you don’t mean he might…”

I couldn’t say it.

“Yes. He might. I’ve lost two patients already. Granted they weren’t as good health as Poirot was before they became ill, so he’s got a very good chance of recovery. Just get that fever down, and keep his airways clear. If his breathing gets any worse, you call for an ambulance right away.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“And miss, I’m sorry but you’ve got to be quarantined. Minimum of 10 days, but it will depend. No one in or out until we can be sure you haven’t caught it as well. Put everything on credit until then, and have any deliveries left outside of the door.”

What a fine kettle of fish. I didn’t have any changes of clothes or any toiletries, and Poirot could be dying in front of my eyes. Well, one I could do something about and one I could not. I may not be able to get any changes of clothes, but I could look after Poirot and make sure he came through all right.

The medicine came before tea time, and the boy must have had his instructions already because he knocked on the door, announced he was from the pharmacy and was gone again. I gave Poirot the medicine and assured him that it would help him to sleep and feel better soon. He screwed up his face as if I’d just made him drink the nastiest substance known to mankind. I couldn’t help but smile a little. He was being such a baby about being sick! 

It didn’t take long for the medicine to take effect. Poirot’s cough quieted and he did finally sleep. 

~FRIDAY~

His breathing hadn’t got any worse, but his cough had subsided with the help of the medicine the doctor had prescribed. I hadn’t really slept that night out of fear and also because I was worried that he would wake up and need something. I dozed in a chair in his room so that I could monitor him. I only left his side long enough to make something for myself to eat or to find something to keep myself occupied while I waited. The morning became the afternoon, then the evening, and soon it was night again. All the while, the fever would come back again and again. I’d beat it back with aspirin and cold compress, but it would come back again once the aspirin wore off.

Once, he woke and asked for his rosary. I found the black and silver beaded necklace laid neatly on his dressing table. I pressed it into his right hand, and he went back to sleep.

~SATURDAY~

I spent another long night in a chair by his bedside. The medicine seemed to be truly helping as he rarely coughed, and slept soundly. I knew the sleep would help him, so I tried to be as quiet as possible. He was sweating due to the fever, and wouldn’t have let himself be in this condition if he were awake to take care of himself. 

I decided to try and give him a bit of a bath. It would help cool him off and he would probably feel much better to have the sweat rinsed off of him. I rolled up his sleeves and washed his arms. I undid the top button of his pajamas and washed his neck and chest. I washed his face gently. I couldn’t help but smile at how grumpy he looked in his sleep. I smoothed his hair down gently where it had become mussed from laying on the pillow for so long. His forehead was so warm, and his cheeks were flushed with fever. It kind of took any of the sweetness I’d been feeling away to realize he was still in danger.

When he woke up I gave him his medicines and asked him if he wanted anything to eat. He just shook his head tiredly and softly said, “Non, merci.” 

“If you change your mind, I’ll make you anything you’d like.”

He just smiled tiredly and closed his eyes. I squeezed his hand gently. I was going to pull him through this no matter what it took. I pulled the chair that had been my chair for the past few days closer to the bed. I rested my head on my arm and held his hand. I just needed to rest my eyes, just for a moment. I hadn’t slept properly in days and it was going to be another long night. I couldn’t just leave him.

~SUNDAY~

I woke up the next morning with the sun streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. I realized I was still holding his hand and resting my head on his bed. I looked up to see his eyes were shining, and he was smiling down at me. He looked much better. His face wasn’t flushed, and his eyes seemed to shine with happiness instead of fever. I let go of his hand like it was on fire and I’d been burnt. I sat up and wiped the sleep from my face and smoothed down my hair. I’d slept through the whole night, and now my back was stiff from leaning over.

“Good morning, Monsieur! You look much better this morning!”

“Good morning, Mademoiselle. You looked so peaceful I did not wish to wake you.”

He smiled softly. My face flushed. I hadn’t meant for him to catch me like that. I busied myself with taking his temperature and getting him a drink of water so that I could avoid saying anything about it. 

His temperature was normal, thank God! His breathing was much better though some of the cough still lingered. I excitedly called the doctor to tell him the wonderful news. The doctor agreed that this was indeed wonderful news and that it meant Poirot was out of most of the danger. He still needed to be kept in bed and drink plenty of fluids. He needed to keep his strength up, but I probably didn’t need to watch him as closely as I had. Unfortunately, we were still under quarantine until we were sure I hadn’t also caught the illness.

I nearly cried with relief. I didn’t care if I couldn’t leave the flat for a few more days. Monsieur Poirot was going to be alright!

I relayed the news from the doctor and asked him again if I could bring him anything to eat or drink. He checked the alarm clock ticking on his nightstand.

“Mademoiselle, it is time for my tisane.”

He was teasing me, so I knew he was feeling much better. I laughed and went to prepare his tisane. I brought him the newspaper when I brought him his tisane and left him to read and drink in privacy. While he did that, I went back into the kitchen and warmed up the broth that I’d put in the icebox. He was probably starving after not having eaten for nearly a week, but he needed to start slowly.

I brought the broth to him on a tray. Once he was settled with it I turned to leave.

“Non, Mademoiselle. Please to sit. I would like you to read the newspaper to me so that I may catch up on what I have missed while I drink this most excellent broth you have made for me.”

I was a little surprised that he wanted me to stay, but I wouldn’t refuse. He had done this before. The day I spilled the wine when I tried to fix the haricot vert. I’d thought I’d been a fool, but he just… he just didn’t scold me or send me away. He asked me to stay again and again. What else could a person do when a brilliant and dapper gentleman treats them this way? The only answer was to stay. I wanted to be there as long as he wanted me there.

The front page was all news about this disease that was spreading like wildfire. People were falling ill in the thousands, and everyone was being asked to stay home unless they absolutely had to leave for something vital. There were people like us who had been exposed to the disease who were being told to stay in quarantine to avoid infecting others. Many people had died. Poirot had been one of the lucky ones. Now I could see why the doctor had been so worried and why he’d looked so tired when he came to see Poirot that first day, and I could see why he hadn’t bothered to come back. Poirot was safe, but there were many people who weren’t.

We moved on to other stories. The duchess of whatever was seen someplace doing something with someone. A new play was scheduled to open, but now nobody can go because we’re all supposed to stay home and it’s sure to be a flop. A billionaire stubbed his toe so a street corner that people have been begging to be fixed for 10 years will be fixed next week. The newspaper was bleak, so we gave up on it.

After he finished his broth, Poirot said he was feeling tired again, so I took his tray away and helped him settle down comfortably for a nap. I had to resist the urge to kiss his forehead as I left him. I’d started to feel so comfortable with him; like I belonged there with him. It was silly because after he was well again and quarantine was over, I’d be gone again.

I was almost angry at myself for getting attached again. Now that he was safe, we were hurtling toward an inevitable conclusion. I would leave the spare key in Miss Lemon’s desk and I would walk away again. Poirot might ask me to stay for the week, ask me to stay for dinner, ask me to stay and read with him while he was ill, but he wouldn’t ask me to stay like my heart kept hoping he would. Of that, I was certain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in the house for a week. Is it cabin fever or something more?

~MONDAY~

I had slept in the guest room the night before. Now that he was out of danger, I didn’t think Poirot would appreciate being constantly watched. I did leave the door open a crack in case he needed something in the night, but other than that I slept alone for the first time in almost a week. At first, I’d had a hard time drifting off. I kept listening for him to cough or call for me. Finally, I drifted off and slept a deep dreamless sleep. 

That morning I woke up feeling refreshed and started preparing breakfast. When I came in with his tisane and toast, Poirot was already sitting up with his pince-nez perched on his nose reading yesterday’s paper. There was not a hair on his head out of line, nor a whisker out of place in his mustache. He was ill, and yet he still couldn’t let anything be untidy. I could only smile and shake my head. Hercule Poirot was really something else.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle!”

His voice was bright and held almost no sign that he had been ill at all.

“Good morning, Monsieur! How are you feeling this morning? You’re looking much better.”

I was going to miss waking up every day and seeing his face.

“Merci. Thanks to your nursing most excellent, and your company most agréable, I am feeling much better. Though I am still weak. Poirot, he is like the kitten.”

“Don’t worry Monsieur. You will be back on your feet in no time. A few good meals and you’ll be like a lion again.”

He laughed.

“I see you are already beginning the few good meals, Mademoiselle. Was there this morning a new edition of The Times?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I’ll bring it to you now.”

When I returned with the paper, Poirot had cut his toast into 9 perfect squares and dolloped a small bit of marmalade into the center of each one. He was munching happily and reading the paper as I left him to enjoy his breakfast.

I telephoned the baker, the butcher, and the greengrocer to have them deliver some things. The baguette the baker delivered crackled perfectly and smelled amazing. The greengrocer had probably made a face when I asked that the vegetables he sent be relatively the same size and shape, but he came through. He probably understood after I told him it was for Poirot.

I set to work turning the remaining broth into a hearty soup. I didn’t know how to cook much, but I did know how to cook soup. Once everything was simmering away, I went to clear the breakfast tray and check on Poirot. He was still reading the newspaper quietly. As I removed the tray, he didn’t look up from his paper. 

“Mademoiselle you are not the maid, or the cook, or the nurse. You do not have to be constantly at work, busy like the bees in springtime.”

Now he put the paper down and looked at me.

“Please to sit and keep Poirot company. The little grey cells will waste away to nothing if they are not stimulated.”

“Monsieur, I know I am not your maid or cook but I… I care about you. I care what happens to you. I… “

I bit my tongue before I could finish the thought. Maybe I did love him but maybe it wasn’t a good idea to just blurt out exactly what I was thinking and feeling. Heat was already rising in my face just from admitting that I cared for him.

“I know Mademoiselle. There is time for everything.”

Sometimes I hated that he seemed to know what I hadn’t said. It was both exhilarating and worrying that it felt like I was an open book before him. He very carefully gave nothing away, and I was leaking my secrets like a cracked amphora. It was too much to hope that maybe he felt something close to the same way that I did. I believed that he was fond of me like a person is fond of a friend, or their favorite place to sit in the park. I was sure I would be kidding myself if I let myself believe there was more between us.

I gave in and sat with him. I brought in the chess board and we played a few games. I was terribly rusty, and he was a crafty player. I got him in check once or twice, but there was no outsmarting Poirot.

We ate lunch together. Great big helpings of soup and bread to fill us up and warm us up. I read from Shakespeare’s sonnets for a while after we ate. He was still feeling very weak, and dozed off while I was reading. I pulled the blankets up to cover him better and let him sleep.

He woke up very late and wanted only tisane. Once that was gone, Poirot went back to sleep and I retired to the guest room.

~TUESDAY~

I made french toast for breakfast with the bread left from yesterday and made berry sauce. Then I made tisane and piled the plates with french toast and fresh fruit. I got the newspaper and added it to the tray. That morning, I sat and ate breakfast with him.

We shared the paper like I’d seen my parents do sometimes. Just that simple thing made my heart ache a little bit. It was a silly dream that was too much to ask for. Once this quarantine was over and Miss Lemon was able to return, these scenes of domestic bliss would be over. I tried to focus on how happy I felt in the moment; how good it felt to be here with him eating breakfast and sharing the paper.

I caught him peering at me over his tisane glass. I couldn’t begin to know what he was thinking, though I knew what I wished he would think.

Instead of chess, we practiced my French. We spoke only in French the whole day. It was definitely much more of an exercise for my little grey cells than his! But I loved hearing him speak his native language and I gained an appreciation for how hard it must have been for him when he first came to England. I sounded like a fool in French, even though I definitely wasn't. I hated to think that people might have thought that about him when he was newer to English.

Poirot was getting a little bit stronger every day and the color was coming back to his cheeks. I was so happy to see him getting back to being himself.

~WEDNESDAY~

Scrambled eggs and toast. How strange that being near him every day never really became routine. Sure, some of the varnish was gone because we'd been cooped up together twenty-four hours a day for the last week, but it still felt like I had been given a special privilege. His smile, his mannerisms, the way he spoke to me. I was still getting butterflies. 

Poirot was feeling stronger today, so he ventured out of the bedroom in his red and gold dressing gown to have breakfast with me at the dining table. His matching slippers were boldly emblazoned with his initials in scrolling letters. They seemed to say "I am Hercule Poirot. If you see these slippers in your moment of darkest need, you need not fear for Poirot, he is on the case!"

I stifled a giggle over that last thought and Poirot looked wounded.

"No, Monsieur! Please! You misunderstand!"

"I understand that Poirot is the joke to you!"

His voice was stern and his mouth turned down at the corners. I had really hurt him. He'd really thought I was laughing at him.

"Monsieur, I promise you. I was not laughing at you. I was delighted to see you up and about, and I thought about how reassuring you must be when you turn up in your dressing gown and slippers. Most people who have seen them probably see them in dark times. Please, Monsieur. I didn't mean to hurt you and I'm terribly sorry that I have. Please forgive me?"

I was incredibly earnest in everything that I said and I probably would have burst into tears if he'd stayed angry with me. He considered for a moment, then smiled slightly and sat down.

"Very well, Mademoiselle. You are forgiven. I think you are right that most of the time people have only seen the slippers of Poirot when things are very bad. Very rarely does Poirot leave his bedroom without the socks and the shoes."

We ate happily and the twinkle was back in his eye. I was glad that he'd forgiven me because I'd never think anything bad about him in a million years and it wounded me to think he might think I could.

The weather looked quite nice outside, so I opened the windows in the front room to let in some fresh air after breakfast. The breeze that fluttered the curtains was warm and soft. Poirot turned on the wireless and a recording of the London Symphony Orchestra was playing. It was a good day.

I watched birds and squirrels outside and looked on as bees buzzed around the now untended flowers. It struck me as odd to see that nature was going on merrily as human society was being rocked to the core by a horrible disease.

I switched off the wireless when the symphony was finished. I was feeling so relaxed and wonderful. Poirot was sitting in his armchair reading silently. I started humming without thinking about what I was doing. Just music because it was a nice day and I felt light and happy. It was Poirot who pointed out what time it was.

"Ah, Mademoiselle! You are humming the song from the night of the celebration."

I realized he was right, of course. I hadn't even thought about it.

"It's so hard to believe that we danced together only a week ago. With everything that's happened, it feels like it's been years."

Poirot carefully put his book aside and came to where I was on the opposite side of the room.

"A young lady like yourself, Mademoiselle, should not have to wait so long to dance."

He gathered me up in his arms like he'd done that night. There was no sign of weakness in his arms. The only hint that he'd been ill was the dressing gown.

"Sing to me the song, Mademoiselle."

I began nervously. The lyrics were a little too close to the truth, and it felt like we were somehow closer than we'd been on the dance floor of the restaurant. I did sing it though.

"You and the night and the music, fill me with flaming desire…"

He moved us around the little space in the sitting room as I sang and the warm breeze made the curtains billow and dance too. I was caught up in the moment. Our bodies together, the memories of the first time we danced, his eyes looking into mine now, the too-true lyrics. When the song was done and we stopped dancing, I lost my head.

I kissed him.

We didn't melt together or deepen our kiss like they always seem to do in books. He didn't let go of my waist, but I wasn't sure he'd kissed back. Oh God his lips, his lips! But oh God he wasn't enjoying this was he? He didn't want to be kissed, did he? Oh  _ God _ , what had I done?

When I opened my eyes and pulled away, he let go of my waist and my hand.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

I'd practically yelled it as I ran to the spare bedroom to hide. I locked the door behind me like I was locking out the embarrassment of what I'd done. I hid there for the rest of the afternoon. I couldn't come out. I couldn't face him. I saw the shadow of his feet underneath the door like he'd thought to knock on the door, but then the shadows moved away like he'd thought better of it.

I crept out and made dinner after making sure he was nowhere to be seen. I left a tray for him in front of his bedroom door, knocked, and then hid again. I feared I could never live this down. I'd made a complete fool of myself. I silently cried myself to sleep.

~THURSDAY~

I tried to sneak out and make breakfast like I'd made dinner last night, but Poirot was already in the kitchen cooking soft boiled eggs and toast. I tried to get away before he saw me, but he was too observant and I was too slow.

"Mademoiselle."

I froze in my tracks. I didn't dare turn around for fear I'd see something awful written in his face. I didn't want his pity or his disdain or his fatherly advice or his scolding. I wanted what I couldn't have. I wanted yesterday to do over again. I wanted to not lose my head. I couldn't say I didn't want to kiss him because I did, oh God I did. I just didn't want to embarrass myself and kiss him when he didn't want me.

"Mademoiselle, I think it is you who misunderstands this time. Yesterday, you surprised Poirot. It is not often that young girls kiss him in this way."

He placed his hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I still didn't look in his eyes but kept my eyes firmly on the stitching of his initials on his slippers. He lifted my chin with his index finger and forced me to look in his eyes. They were bright like he himself was on the verge of tears.

"I am not angry with you Mademoiselle. You are a young lady with feelings and you should not be ashamed of them."

I was growing impatient. Maybe I was growing angry.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your feelings either, Monsieur!"

He looked taken aback.

"Monsieur if we both like each other, why can't we both just say so? When this quarantine is over we may never see each other again. What is the harm of being honest?"

"The harm of being honest is sometimes very great. As you say, we may never see each other again! What would be the use of telling to each other these feelings when we cannot act on them? Mademoiselle use your head."

"Monsieur please use your heart. I would rather honestly love you for the short time we have together than dishonestly pretend I only come here because I like challenging work."

I think we were both a little surprised by what I'd said. I'd basically said that I'd loved him since the first week I'd worked for him. Maybe I had. Even I didn't know. I backed away and went back to the spare bedroom calmly. I needed a moment to think.

I couldn't deny it anymore. I had feelings for Hercule Poirot. I was tired of pretending I didn't. I wanted to take me into his arms and kiss me like you always see in movies. The only thing being cooped up with him in quarantine had done was make me lose my fool head.

A short while later he knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He sat next to me on the bed. His nearness was too cruel. I couldn’t help but think of what it would be like if he just held me like I wanted him to.

"Mademoiselle please to think, for one moment, about your future."

"Are you concerned about my reputation? Surely if my reputation were going to be ruined it would be ruined on day one, and not day 8."

He considered for a moment.

"Hmm perhaps you are right, Mademoiselle but-"

I cut him off.

"But nothing. I am not asking you to sin, Monsieur. I am asking you to tell the truth. I am asking for you to let yourself be happy for two days. In two days I will leave and you can do as you choose. We can continue as before, where you only call me because you need a competent replacement. You can choose to never see me again. You can choose to take things as far as your heart desires. If I'm wrong, and you feel nothing, then we'll just forget the whole thing. But I'm not wrong Monsieur, or else you wouldn't fight so hard to convince me. You'd just say 'non merci' and have done with it."

He looked bewildered and impressed, and tired. He took my hand and kissed it softly.

"I surrender."

"Good. Now let's go eat breakfast before it gets ice cold."

I kissed him on the cheek and bounced up off the bed. I looked back to see if he was coming and Poirot looked somewhat dumbfounded. I went back, took his hands, and pulled him up.

"Breakfast is this way," I laughed.

It was amazing how much like the rest of the days I’d spent in quarantine with him that day was. It was just lighter, less restricted. I didn't feel like I had to hold back or try to hide how I felt about him. He seemed lighter too, though he was always the picture of propriety itself. 

He felt well enough to get dressed and sat all day in the living room, and we took turns reading aloud. I think we finished a good part of a collection of Wordsworth's poems. It was a nice choice since we couldn't get out of the house and he wrote so many lovely things about being outside in nature.

After our light supper, I felt reluctant to say goodnight. I caught him yawning and excused myself so he wouldn't have to stay awake any longer. After everything that had happened that morning, I'd forgotten he was still technically in recovery.

As I closed the door to the spare room, sadness settled on my shoulders again. One more day and I'd go home. I tried to cheer myself up and told myself at least I'd have a change of clothes when I got there. Then the little voice in the back of my mind said,  _ 'but you won't have Poirot.' _

~FRIDAY~

The doctor stopped by that morning to check on Poirot's progress. When he was satisfied that he was on the road to full recovery, he turned on me. He took my temperature and asked if I'd had any symptoms like Poirot's. He looked in my nose and in my throat and once I'd passed all of his tests he cleared me to be able to leave the next morning as long as no symptoms crept up. The doctor told Poirot that he needed to take it easy for a few more days but he'd be able to go out again soon as well, as long as he followed the social distancing protocols that everyone else was following.

My thanks rang hollow as I showed the doctor out. I was extremely glad that Poirot was going to make a full recovery. He was already making extraordinary strides in that regard. I was merely feeling sullen that this was my last day with a good excuse to stay with him.

I hated how unremarkable the day was. If I wasn’t going to see Poirot again after today couldn’t it at least rain? Couldn’t something happen that matched how I was feeling on the inside? 

The kitchen was running low again on provisions, so I called for grocery deliveries again. Technically, neither of us was supposed to go outside until tomorrow. I thought about how nice it would have been to go arm in arm down to the shops together and pick out ripe fruits from the greengrocer, and good cuts of meat from the butcher’s shop. How delighted he’d be when we came home and I’d bought some of his favorite chocolate when he wasn’t looking, and how we’d laugh and laugh because he’d bought my favorite chocolates when I wasn’t looking.

I shook myself back to reality. I tried to keep my thoughts to the here and now. How could I make today a good memory to look back on? Maybe I was on to something before. I looked through Miss Lemon’s files because she kept records of everything under the sun

When I found the telephone number I was looking for, I looked around to make sure Poirot wasn’t nearby. I shut the door and made my secret call. Luckily the shop was open, and the proprietor remembered Poirot very well. I couldn’t wait for him to see his surprise. The proprietor was very kind and allowed me to place the order and pay for it at a later time since I was unable to leave for one more day and it was a treat for his favorite customer.

The surprise I’d ordered arrived at the same time as the other groceries, so it wasn’t’ hard for me to hide it. Poirot spent part of the day at his desk looking over things that had come in the post while he was ill, so he never suspected a thing.

When dinner was over that night, I brought the plainly wrapped box out and set it in front of him on the dinner table.

“What is this, Mademoiselle?”

“It’s a small token to thank you for how sweet you’ve been to me.”

Poirot was clearly curious about what was inside the plain brown paper but he wasn’t opening it.

“You’ll never know what’s inside if you don’t open it, Monsieur.”

“No, but it is fun to try to guess what it is before the paper is opened, nes pa?”

I laughed

“Of course, but if you take too long the person who is giving the gift might die of suspense!”

“Oh, very well.”

He sounded like I was ruining all of his fun. That changed once he’d broken the string and opened the paper. His eyes lit up like Christmas morning when he saw the decorations adorning the box inside and he realized what I’d given him. He opened the lid as if what the box promised couldn’t possibly be true. He exclaimed when he saw that inside the box was a demi-kilo of his favorite chocolates from his favorite chocolate maker. 

“Mademoiselle! How did you know?”

I smirked at him and laughed.

“You aren’t the only detective around here, you know.”

The joy and excitement were evident on his face. I sat down as he ate the first one and his face became the picture of delight. That’s exactly what the day needed. I was glowing on the inside to see him so happy. I could face leaving the next day knowing there was this happy note to end on. I kissed him on his temple and said goodnight.

~SATURDAY~

I woke up early so that I could get ready to leave. I didn’t have any bags to pack, but I wanted to have breakfast and all of those important things before I braved the strange new things I was sure to encounter before I headed home.

Poirot was already up and had made breakfast. I had a cup of tisane myself this morning. It was just herbal tea. It tasted mostly of chamomile. I didn’t know why I hadn’t tried it before. We both ate quietly as if we didn’t know what to say and maybe were dreading the part that came next.

After I cleared the breakfast things and we washed them up together, I went to get my hat and coat on.

Poirot helped me to put on my coat. I wasn’t ready to go yet. I felt like there was still so much left unsaid. He took my hand and studied it for a moment before he spoke.

“Perhaps you can stay for one more week?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a labor of love and my first ever multi-chapter fic. Thank you again to TransAtlanticPhoneSex for looking over the second chapter for me. As always ConCrit is welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading! As always, constructive criticism is welcome! The next chapter is coming as quickly as I can crank it out XD  
> Thanks to TransAtlanticPhoneSex for beta-ing
> 
> For a period recording of the song referenced in this fic please visit: https://youtu.be/vzpwpCxmNKY


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